“I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.”― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

yesterday was my one year anniversary on substack, which makes it the longest and most emotionally honest relationship i’ve been in.

ironically, i wrote my first article on intimate connection.

i am nothing if not contradictory. i write the truths i find most inconvenient in hopes that someone else might put them to better use.

cupid and psyche found me in a vulnerable state at the met on march 1st. i was experiencing emotional drainage from something that hadn’t yet taken a clear shape.

i borrowed symptoms from the surrounding display of ancient stories to diagnose the feeling: friction from pouring myself into an overflowing cup.

art gives us language for the emotions we can’t yet define. it captures stark nuances, like beauty and fragility coexisting in every portrayal of aphrodite.

my mind, suspended in fog, approached a truth i’d been wrestling for some time — like water running through your fingers, intimacy is fleeting and hard to hold.

considering the only anniversary i’m celebrating this year is between myself and my keyboard, i’ll double down on that thesis.

i’ve exhausted myself

solitude is a self-preserving luxury until you exhaust your own company. nothing gets in my way like needing someone or being needed.

independence is a rush – it’s a freedom in its own right, with the caveat that the craving for connection tends to linger in the background.

close relationships destabilize my sense of safety, but i don’t see the value of relating casually.

i gravitate toward people who don’t need me because connection without dependency is strangely relieving.

suspense is close enough to the solution – the mythical sweet spot between solitude and connection. isolating… but safe.

i am an insulated container of bottled up feeling. i instinctively absorb the emotions of the people that matter to me until i can’t distinguish them from my own. i create controlled spaces to connect authentically and autonomously because outside of them i’m a conscious guest in someone else’s narrative.

i’ve exhausted myself.

the cost of connection

i think we need each other to save us from our self-made safety nets.

only the right company could allow a writer to set down her pen. intimacy can make us surrender what we hold dearest.

we look for safer ways to scratch the itch. we find connection that sits on a shelf just low enough to reach and high enough to avoid. the mind plays clever tricks, but the body conditions toward attachment.

intimacy is a ceilingless room until you bump your head.

human connection can be chaotic, demanding, revealing, and unforgiving – we make mistakes and inflict pain until we learn to hold it responsibly. intimacy challenges our character and threatens our sacred sense of self, yet we’re left empty in its absence.

once you’ve developed a strong and harmonious relationship with yourself, intimacy shows up like a seductive home-wrecker.

in my solitude, i am alive and free… but not quite alive enough.

i’ve decided that soul-level connection doesn’t come from shared interests and values, or even deep understanding. it emerges from trusting in a safety net that exists outside of yourself.

loneliness is not solitude. loneliness is sacrificing self connection for a bond that doesn’t serve that function.

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intimacy is inevitable

i cannot choose between the peace of solitude and the stimulation of human connection so i alternate between the two like a modern-day persephone.

do i really thrive in solitude, or is it the only place i feel safe without needing to ask for safety?

we crave connection. we claim to want to be understood, but what most of us want more than anything is connection without self abandonment — or at least intimacy that doesn’t leave us a little bit stretched, stuck, and hollow.

you may prefer the ache of solitude to the exposure of connection, but intimacy has a habit of returning.

i admired the cupid statue for nearly ten minutes through teary eyes. i circled it until i could connect every story told by every angle to form one coherent shape. i thought if i could understand the narrative then i could clear the formless fog growing inside of me.

tragedy… sacrifice… co-dependency… innocence…

inevitability.

intimacy’s promise lingering like it always does.

it was an incomplete shape, but enough for now. i exhaled, pocketed it, and walked away.

i was once a 12-year-old with a volunteer role as a school librarian’s assistant. at 16, i was consuming self help media and fighting political battles with adults on facebook. soon after reaching legal drinking age, i sipped red wine to embody the sophistication that had been growing within me for 10 years.

women do not grow up and suddenly become responsible. as we age, it gradually becomes acceptable to externalize maturity.

i have spent 23 years counting my blessings behind closed doors, marveling at the tender nature of my closest bonds. gratitude is not a word, but a state of being. it’s a practice many of us learn early.

i’ve always treasured the pretty butterflies in my stomach. i’ve heard them whisper, this is what we stay alive for.

eldest daughters who were labeled as mature for their age early on are already tired by 23. i’m ready to feel young enough to let life happen a little more than i happen to life.

i’m ready to step into a new season without resistance, with the evergreen toolkit i’ve gathered: discernment and structured responsibility and boundaries.

i’ve decided that life isn’t something to wind down from yet.

life is the occasion — especially the sweet, bright, and effervescent parts.

22 has been heavy and expansive. it’s been a fine line between observing and feeling… cathartic and textured. it’s been a year of enduring complex and destabilizing experiences, then choosing to celebrate that they were survived honestly.

the effervescent decade is for gentle self-discovery and exploration. it’s for seeing how much you can learn and experience before you put roots down. and none of it has to wear you down, despite what you’ve been told.

what if we sip our spritzes now and postpone the glasses of red just a bit longer?

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i’m raising my glass to girlhood.

the joys, the shadows, and all of the parts i hate but wouldn’t trade for the world. i’m currently on a bus to boston to see my best friends, and i couldn’t imagine a better life boat in a sea of emotional fatigue.

lena dunham compared being a young woman to dancing joyfully and hitting your head on accident.1

cheers to choosing joy even if it leads to a bump on my forehead, and scars left by lived experience on an open heart. if younger me held youth and ambition simultaneously, this version can too.

cheers to choosing your path. i’m a writer because i always knew i was. i keep self love like a promise to a younger me who gave herself enough grace for the both of us.

at 23 or any age, you can choose to be anything you want. i choose to be a cool, bright glass of something bubbly.

…because effervescence is what we actually stay alive for.

there’s a collection of keepsakes in my brain, too. the birthday of everyone that ever mattered to me, the familiar cadence of my grandma’s voice, a gallery of nostalgic mental images.

i have this innate need to encapsulate my life in meaning like bubble wrap, protective in theory. at 22, i am finally evolved and grown enough to feel the compounding weight of holding on.

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every good thing you possess is something to lose. many of us sabotage or suffocate what we perceive as valuable to secure them against loss. some of us may even seek refuge in a constant state of desire to avoid the pressure of holding onto something good.

resistance builds the moment things begin to fall into place. when you are young, joy is easier to grasp and the prospect of a bright future is a privilege. growing up means navigating the friction of becoming responsible for your own joy.

i’ve always found comfort in possibility because wanting is far more familiar than indulging. when i first arrived to new york without a job or place to live yet, loneliness was a lighter burden than security. i was not happier then, but i felt more alive.

a tingling creeps up my spine with each month that passes at an alarmingly brevity, and my mind spins and trips over itself anticipating what comes next. my life might look something like surrendering control, but it’s often quite the opposite. it’s perpetual anticipation disguised as carefree.

a cost of fulfillment is vulnerability, and vulnerability demands surrender. i’ve learned to open my mind but never my heart. i have mastered the art of preservation. although authentic and true, what you’re reading is curated and controlled.

but i want to write from my heart, this time.

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i am well acquainted with the cold comfort of isolation. i’m living proof that aliveness and self preservation can coexist, but not without just enough emotional distancing. will i lose myself if i let meaning exist naturally on its own?

curation can become exhausting. i want to be known beyond my own control. i crave unawareness, detachment, and unexamined intimacy. i hope to learn to let a good thing sit and breathe on it’s own… to trust myself with peace, presence, and the flowing current of love and loss.

i don’t know what would become of me if i threw away the keepsakes, of my words if i burned my stack of journals, of love without fear of loss, or of life without proof of romance.

i want a quiet and steady existence, and subtle rays of sunshine that slip through branches and blinds into my life. i want to know if a peaceful, unexamined life could ever be enough.

and if it isn’t, then i want to preserve myself without emotional control. i want to transform without being changed. i want to be held without holding my breath, and to hold on just a little less tight.

i’ll never burn my journals because my words hold me accountable. i could throw away my keepsakes and keep the memories, but i won’t because they bring me joy. love, meaning, and identity do not need to be made permanent to be real, they only need to be held intentionally.

to be seen without control is not a threat, it’s expansion. to allow the seasons to change as they please does not erase the warmth of summer. nothing can really take away what’s inherently yours, what’s yours can only grow. to live is to simply navigate the weather, plant seeds where you can, and in time, bear the fruits of your wholeness.

holding on can be exhausting. eventually, your knuckles turn white and your grip loosens on its own. maybe lightening the weight on our shoulders doesn’t require letting go or holding on tighter, but simply learning to hold things out of love rather than for love.

in college, i sang a karaoke duet to “gives you hell” with my best friend in front of a crowd of our peers. one of us was evidently going through it.

i’d listened to her voice soften and crack as she confided in me a few days prior, supporting the weight of her disappointment. i shared her sadness and rage in those moments, then witnessed her unique way of navigating back to her vibrant self. every time i hear that song now, i think of my dear friend and her fiercely tender way of healing.

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when another one of my best friends had her heart broken i searched for a bright side to lift her spirit, and found that she was experiencing humanness in its purest form — in a way i never had. once i stepped back from tending to her wound, i watched her pick herself up in a way only she could: dramatic, non-linear, and courageously soft.

my friends’ experiences were entirely their own, but observing them sharpened my understanding of a fully explored existence.

for many of us, our instinct is to shield ourselves from our own fragility. but to be alive is to allow ourselves to be human in our broken imperfection, with all of our cracks and rough edges. to witness and be witnessed as such is not a threat but a sign of a life well-lived.

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humans are not meant to be emotionally insulated containers. we’re meant to learn from our suffering and from the people who show up in our lives imperfectly, accepting our imperfections in return.

there are actively eight billion distinct human lives, and something to learn from each of them.

each person we encounter carries a way of being in the world. by witnessing each other, we find pieces of ourselves we could never discover alone. vulnerability is a mirror and a teacher, and every experience brings you closer to where you fit in the puzzle.

the sky over nyc, 3/26/26

today i had a vision of a yellow sunflower. it happened because the sun was out in new york, and as i stepped out of my office building i thought i might buy flowers to celebrate. i decided i shouldn’t spend the money, and deemed a single sunflower a fair compromise. a sunflower is the color of hope, and strong enough to stand on it’s own. i descended the steps to the subway platform and a single stem bolstering yellow petals caught my vision. it stood proudly in the grip of a man stood alone by the tracks. i find it strange when that happens — when i break the 4th wall with reality — but not shocking. i considered writing a poem instead of buying the sunflower, because i haven’t written one in months and the universe had handed me a muse. i can’t decide whether the lack is in inspiration or confidence. i hate when i write a poem and it doesn’t turn out good… essay or prose is one thing, but a poem has to be good. i imagine i’d be a much better writer if i weren’t so self conscious. what kind of artist would i be if i weren’t so human, so desperate to be loved?

i don’t know how long i sat there for, it could’ve been 30 minutes or two hours. i looked across the ocean separating the island from my little world in rural massachusetts. for a moment, nothing else mattered.

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i had no idea where my life was headed in the coming months, but the warm breeze embraced me — the same way every local i’d interacted with that week did — assuring me everything was going to be alright.

a stream of soft tears poured from a place inside of me i didn’t know existed, like every buried spanish word i’d recently recalled and the familiar sense of home in the air.

i buried my toes in the sand and allowed myself to sit with the island like i was an extension of it. i would say i left a piece of my heart in san juan, but it was more like i found it there waiting for me.

i froze the moment and took a mental picture as a keepsake, then started typing a note on my phone.

ocean park beach, san juan - march 21. 2025

there is something symbolic about being here at a point in my life where nearly everything is uncertain. this week has been so much more than a vacation for me. there is just this moment in time, a moment that will forever stand on its own.

truthfully, i’m not exactly sure what i mean by that last statement. i want to leave my time here untouched and untainted, but i want to take it home with me and let it color my world and the rest of my life.

i’m going to go home tonight and still be 21 and unsure of exactly who i am or should become, maybe even less sure than i was before. i’m going to go home and maybe be someone who’s a little more aware of what she’s capable of, or maybe nothing will change at all.

i’m going to look back on this week as proof that i can and will continue to surprise myself, and that no person, stereotype, or cultural norm gets to decide who i am.

now i say goodbye to the island that gave me something my little bubble of a life back in amherst could never offer: peace in knowing exactly where i come from and what brought me here.

i’m still unsure of where my life is headed but i know that half of me will forever live on this island like it always has, even when i’m thousands of miles away — and that is one beautiful and sure thing.

i never planned on sharing this, but i believe we’re all made up of stories that demand to be told. the stories meant to connect us will always transcend difference — reaching across generations, languages, and borders. i’m lucky to have learned that early on.

i’ve found that discovering yourself becomes a decent amount easier when you look toward the people and places that had to exist for you to be here.

to my ancestors, thank you for demonstrating resilience and courage in ways i’ll never have to. and to the island that made me, thank you for sending waves of alegría across the distance. tienes un pedazo de mi corazón.

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i went from charismatic sorority girl quietly drowning in bills to determined nomad, publicly out of her mind. i got used to the judgment, found joy in embarrassment, and wore boldness like my new favorite sweater.

everything was spontaneous and uncertain, until spontaneous uncertainty became my life.

six months in this city is like the six minutes after your shower water goes cold half-way through shaving.

new york, bitter and sobering, will chew you up and spit you out and still leave you feeling like a kid at an amusement park.

it’s the center of the whirlpool, where all people and realities congregate and hate and love willingly coexist.

new york will teach you something about paradox.

it’s my first winter here and I’m coming back around to normal. every morning, I tread the ice sheets that lace my once sunny commute to work.

i observe each passerby and wonder about how good or dangerous their inner self might be, and whether or not people can change.

during my seven minute wait for the m train at hewes station, i let my nose go numb and my mind escape with each opaque breath. i feel alive and happy to be here.

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my holiday spirit has run dry and either I’m becoming an adult or a proper new yorker.

the other day, i accidentally equated the discarded christmas trees lining the streets to dead bodies and now i can’t shake the image.

the city is almost silent and sleeping bodies line the streets like trees.

i spend my morning subway ride doing some of my best thinking. sometimes i come up with lines for a poem and jot them down. i’ve started a list of clever juxtapositions.

• christmas trees / dead bodies

• cigarettes / candy

i think i get by in new york because i’m already fluent in paradox.

moving here was initiated mainly by the envisioned outcome that i survive new york city, therefore proving that i can endure most things. romanticizing survival was the easiest part.

i’m not sure how much of my success thus far has been a product of mental toughness, and how much has been spun from delusion.

it seems obvious to me now that all good and steady things take a careful balance of both. i wonder about what a good and steady thing must be worth in a place like this.

on the subway ride home i return to my morning thoughts. the other day i revisited the notes app list i’d started, hoping to spark a flame.

i thought a bit more about candy cigarettes, because what a concept. i remember getting someone in trouble for having them at school once, and feeling bad about it after.

candy cigarettes are sweet and misunderstood and hard to find.

i had the idea to write a poem about innocent things that disguise themselves as threat, but i hit a wall. my inner poet has been quiet since the last time i wrote something about cigarettes.

i began to question my need to overdress concepts like fear, disappointment, and unhealthy attachment in metaphor. then i decided everything i write is a derivative of hope or spite anyway, which derive from the same thing in the end.

my decision to move to a new city was ultimately rooted in romance. i have a habit of romanticizing difficult things to add depth and meaning to my experience of life.

i’ve since realized that there’s an unexpected steadiness to feeling truly alive. life carries the most meaning in its purest, untouched form.

it so happens that the single paradox i’ve been avoiding is the story that tells itself, and makes meaning on its own — a quiet and thrilling life.

…read on for the bts of where i’m finding inspiration lately.

the mundane

a while back, i wrote about the in-between phase that comes after college ends and right before your life as an adult in the real world begins. a lot has happened since then. on the other side of all of it, life is a lot more quiet. it’s still busy, don’t get me wrong. i have very limited time to sit around and do nothing, and i like it that way because i chose it. but when i do get to be bored, when i have the privilege to stay home all day and treat myself to a lazy sunday, i begin to understand that life really starts when you find joy in the mundane everyday things that fill up the space between hustling, daydreaming, and wanting more.

there is peace in being content with the sometimes boring but sometimes energizing life you’ve established for yourself, the quiet luxuries that no one can touch. maybe it’s the disillusionment talking, but crossing the fence and experiencing things i once dreamed about has shown me that we aren’t meant to spend our lives daydreaming and making plans all day. we’re supposed to make the most of our present reality, listen closely to our nervous system, and quietly attract meaningful additions that might make the simple life even sweeter.

a little whimsy

i got a full time job, started shopping at the gap, and accidentally aged myself 10 years. i’ve been leaning into maturity because it’s fun and freeing to embrace your independence in your early 20’s, but it’s easy to forget to enjoy your youth while you can still taste it. maybe i’m contradicting my last point, but that’s pretty much exactly how life feels right now - a weird, blurry, barely-there line between youth and adulthood. the holiday season has provided the kid in me a temporary edge in the tug-of-war.

looking around, i’ve filled my early adult life with red wine, muted decor, and minimal fashion. sure, it’s all chic and put-together, but certain areas of my life are desperately missing a touch of whimsy. new york is one of the busiest places to exist in, making it hard at times to make space for christmas spirit. luckily, most corners of the city are decked out with ribbon, lights, and glitter. daily commutes are soundtracked with holiday classics and everything feels a little more joyful. it’s been a good reminder that no matter how old and more responsible we get, we can all benefit from making room for a little whimsy in our daily lives.

the green light

i’m not huge on classic literature but i think there is value in picking up a timeless novel, not for academic purposes, but to remind yourself of human nature’s reliability. gen z revived sylvia plath’s fig tree analogy, making it widely relevant to modern young adult culture. as someone who makes her way through life searching for universal ideas and themes everywhere, i’ve found no shortage of them in the reading assigned to me in grade school.

the great gatsby has snuck into my conscious thinking more than a handful of times since reading it in high school, but more frequently in recent months. i’ve lately felt inspired to pick it up and revisit what is in my opinion one of the most timeless and on-point narrative reflections of class, economic structure, societal pressure, and good old fashioned yearning. i could write a book on coming-of-age literature and film, but for now i’ll leave you with a favorite quote.

“i hope she’ll be a fool — that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” - daisy buchanan, the great gatsby

well that concludes my last eclectic mix of inspirations and perspectives of 2025. thanks for letting me brain dump! see you next year <3

so that’s what i did, and i got exactly what i wanted. i ran off to new york and even though college gave me more than i ever knew i needed, i haven’t really looked back. i buried a time capsule of sorority letters, dining hall food, and familiar acquaintances at the bar i spent every weekend at. i sold nearly all of my clothes, cleared my camera roll, packed one suitcase, and booked a train to the city.

i had no idea what i was running toward, but i was self aware enough to know that if i didn’t leave right away then i might never go. i don’t know what made running off so easy - maybe the right combination of adrenaline, confidence, and curiosity. none of that changes the amount of gratitude i have for my four years of undergrad. i suppose i squeezed all of the juice out of them until there was nothing left. so here i am now, reporting live from the other side. it’s both miserable and unimaginably better than i’d hoped. the grass isn’t greener, or browner here – it’s a different color entirely.

here’s what the other side has taught me so far. if you want to grow into a new version of yourself, you have to be prepared to abandon everything you know to be true so that you can rewrite the script. the methods of survival that you’ve spent years developing were in place to support a life that can no longer sustain you. transformation demands rebuilding. it’s incredibly humbling, terrifying, uncomfortable, but above all rewarding as hell. sometimes success hides in rooms most people are scared to walk into - like embarrassment, rejection, unfamiliarity, and failure.

the purest form of wisdom comes from experience, not simply knowing better. as someone who’s given and received top tier advice, nothing really drills in “don’t touch the hot stove” like getting burned firsthand. because of this, comfort is dangerously limiting and failure is necessary. since graduating and running off on my own every misstep i’ve taken has made me one degree more confident in my path forward, every good opportunity has lived somewhere outside my comfort zone, and every rejection has reaffirmed that the regret of not speaking up is always worse.

recently, i’ve learned that the world does not revolve around me. the world revolves around money, at least in your 20’s. the good news is that this doesn’t mean there isn’t room for meaning. i’ve learned that there’s value in striking a smart balance. even in an AI-driven world, meaning still sells because authenticity still moves people. i’ve always had an instinct that successful people just do things but i came to new york to prove it to myself. especially here, the good opportunities never wait for you to be ready - there isn’t time to make things perfect before making them tangible. that’s wasted potential, impact, and dollars. you only “make it” by moving at the same pace as everyone else, or faster.

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so far post grad has shown me that self-doubt kills creativity, confidence protects your potential, true friends will stick, what’s meant for you will choose you, and discomfort stands between your couch and the finish line - even if you’re not a runner.

all this to say, it doesn’t really matter what color the grass is on the other side. you can paint over it. what matters is that you got there yourself to see what it’d be like. even if it hurt (or worse - paid off), you stopped thinking about running and just moved your damn legs. and that’s how people get places.

people will tell you where they’ve gone

they’ll tell you where to go

but till you get there yourself you never really know

Amelia - Joni Mitchell

i took a break from myself

i knew it was happening but i didn’t want to do anything about it. i had been folding myself small while projecting a more polished version of me very big.

not a single person asked me to commit this act of self dismissal, and that was the best part. i ghosted my journal for weeks. i wanted a break from myself because analyzing every corner of my mind was tiring work. because sometimes when you stare at a painting for too long, the brush strokes start to blur into each other and you just need another perspective.

many of us go wrong by seeking approval from insignificant sources and dismissing those that matter most -- like the best friend who can say, “is that really what you want or do you want to feel wanted?” and it doesn’t sting but somehow eases the wound. or a mother who texts to let you know she’s around to call, because she can sense that you’re carrying something heavy. or a little brother who sends a photo of the morning sunrise from his window because it made him think of you.

i took a break from myself to look for perspective because frankly, i started questioning my own. and when i finally found some, it didn’t look like approval. it looked like pillars holding me up. it sounded like “i understand,” instead of “i told you so.” and it felt like a safety net that i, who was stupid enough to fall, couldn’t have deserved.

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what’s real and what’s not

recently, i found myself venting to my parents over the phone in the midst of post nine-hour work day expenditure.

“your twenties are so exhausting,” i complained. “life demands that you try so hard in every aspect, and in that trying you start to lose touch with what’s real and what’s not.”

“like, who am i behind closed doors? you know, when no one’s watching? when there’s no one evaluating? because I used to know the answer very well.”

the people close to you offer evidence of who you really are. each time they give the advice that you needed, reflect your values back to you, or question your behavior, they’re telling you loud and clear that they know you.

when life around you starts to feel fake, or even forced, you can find something real in the people that know you best. to me, they’re living evidence that i make sense; proof that all this becoming has become something; a reminder that the road is still there when i’ve veered off route, and it’s okay to loosen my grip on the wheel; cold, hard, indisputable evidence that i am being watched out for -- even when, for some twisted reason, i’m convinced i haven’t earned it.

pockets of knowing

i’ve made it to where i am because i know and listen to myself, but i’m standing because i am known. sometimes we get so caught up in trying to know ourselves inside out that we don’t notice the blinders we’ve got blocking the people we love. the ones who hold precious, thoughtfully gift-wrapped pockets of knowing. if you’re like me and in the words of sylvia plath, a victim of introspection, i urge you to take that self reflection and turn it inside out. share it with someone who matters to you, get to know them instead. could you imagine a more sincere gift than that?

there is something so miraculously delicate about the act of knowing another person in their completeness, not in their reflection of you but instead their impossibly singular and unparalleled view of their world. to be known like that…

well it makes everything else seem shallow. it makes knowing yourself less burdensome. and it makes the brush strokes start to un-blur. maybe when we ask to be known we instinctively morph into something more interesting, and the result is something unknowable. and maybe it takes some blind navigation off the path to give those who know us best a chance to step in and guide us back home.

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11.26.2024

i’m home for thanksgiving break. my hair is braided and slightly frizzy, and i’m letting it air dry. i was quiet while my dad drove me home from school, allowing my brain to process the shift. he talked about crystals, energy, and the moonlight. it’s only slightly strange that we’re not too familiar with these current versions of each other. i get home and in the shower, and the past few months are washed away for a moment. i feel a small crack inside of me heal. isaac got his hair cut short on the sides and long at the top. he’s even taller than he was last week. we’re all in the living room talking about the Wicked movie now – we’re going to see it on saturday. when Wicked was released on broadway, my dad was 21 with a newborn. i’m 21 now and struggling to take care of myself.

a change of subject and he asks me if I’ve wrapped my head around my impending life transition yet. that seems to be the word of the year: Transition, with a capital “T”. i keep thinking about how when i was little, and as I got older, he would say that I struggled with transitions. it wasn’t until recently that I decided he was right. transitions mean you have to change. you have to do something because life is changing all around you and there’s no controlling it. but the reality is i’m changing all the time anyway. humans are supposed to evolve. whether it feels fast or slow, change is a thing we live with.

it’s kinda funny because a big dumpster in the driveway holds the contents of our back deck, my dad is talking to our cat on the ottoman that now belongs to her, my mom has her fifth crossfit session this week in the morning, and the house I grew up in isn’t the same as it was. the people inside of it have changed too, and they haven’t gone anywhere.

i always thought of love as choosing someone in spite of the baggage, mistakes, flaws, and habits that come with them. that definition applies to self love too. repeatedly choosing ourselves, with all of our baggage and flaws, is an act of love. i think what a lot of people get wrong is they focus on the most appealing parts of things and amplify them. they form this perfectly curated, simplified image in their minds and leave all of the unattractive, uncomfortable, incomprehensible stuff out in the cold to grow increasingly bitter. i do it to. victims of this romanticization strategy in my life include romantic prospects, new york city, and even myself.

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i love myself – conditionally. i love that i’m not afraid to pursue my passions even if they seem unrealistic. i love that i can romanticize almost anything and find beauty in the mundane. i love how deeply i think about things. i love how i never stop evolving. i don’t love that i hold grudges. i don’t love that i sometimes talk too much about myself. i don’t love that i neglect my own boundaries in order to be liked.

i conjure up this image of myself that’s a little bit easier to love to replace the real, imperfect version. i think somewhere down the line i mislabeled this self-romanticization as self love. it works until someone gets close enough to see through it, and i’m suddenly questioning why i’m so worried about whether i’m good enough. if i’m so confidently aware of my value then why am i still afraid of rejection? why does the certainty leave my body when someone else is in the room? by my definition, real love is never conditional. it sees all of the ugly stuff and accepts it as much as the good because what else will shed light on the darkness in us if not love?

there is an ugliness to loving yourself because you can’t love something unconditionally without seeing and accepting it in its entirety. each time you excuse treatment you know you don’t deserve or bubble wrap an idea in “i don’t know” and “maybe,” you devalue yourself and hurt your credibility. self love is something hollow if it doesn’t stay intact when you’re asked to describe your value, or when someone fails to see your worth, or in a room full of people you don’t know, or in one full of people who are supposed to know you best. i think the kind of love we owe ourselves keeps us steady when we’re let down after getting our hopes up, makes us brave enough to be vulnerable, keeps us positive when the things we want take time, and allows us to walk away when we’ve bent too far to make something fit.

unconditional self love means letting go of what you’re only holding onto because it’s comfortable. it means speaking honestly even if people might leave. it means owning your mistakes because they’re a part of you too. it’s understanding that imperfection means there’s room to grow, and staying true to yourself is how you find the people and circumstances that lift you up. call it delusion but I think loving yourself (and your ugly, too) creates a reality where the right people don’t walk away, the right opportunities don’t pass you by, and good things might take time but they’ll never ask you to be something you’re not.

hey, it’s been a few. did i say weekly posts? i meant monthly… i’m sorry for leaving you hanging (i have 4 subscribers). anyway — i’m ashamed to admit that each time in the past month that i’ve started typing this, and really attempted to write anything at all, i either froze or became overly self critical and gave up.

i guess i’m still getting to know this current version of myself. the post grad, new york city isabel. an isabel who’s frontal lobe must be developing because she’s finally making space for long-term thinking. this version of myself is growing actively instead of reactively, with purpose and intention. and that might mean prioritizing experiencing over intellectualizing, at least right now.

so, since words are failing me, all i can provide is a glimpse into my very well kept and up-to-date filing cabinet of visual inspiration (aka my most recent pinterest saves). below are a few conceptual (moderately theoretical and abstract) themes i’ve gathered from my recently saved pins.

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art deco

(noun) a decorative art style; a song by lana del rey; less hopeful than eclectic; less warm and more cool, but still hot.

• the creative rabbit hole you’re sent down when the walls in your new apartment are grey instead of white.

water

(noun) a transparent, tasteless, odorless, and nearly colorless chemical substance; a symbol of self care, nostalgia, and fresh starts.

• the natural and intricate textures of things that you notice when you look a little closer.

strong coffee

(noun) a darkly colored, bitter, and slightly acidic beverage; an embodiment of a slightly more girlboss than cozy fall, the energy i bring to the office, and chocolate brown.

• in lighter but still strong form, the coconut cream cold brew from designers collab.

i suppose all this to say (or rather show) that the current version of isabel is busy curating her new apartment, spending weekdays in the office, and still leaving pockets of room for nostalgia and romanticism — because some things never change.

• used in reference to an intricate or complex combination of things or sequence of events.

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as a creator i love to read about artists’ creative processes, rituals, and the funky ways they go about harnessing inspiration. i love the act of creating as much as i love art itself — so i thought i’d share a glimpse into the behind the scenes of my writing, storytelling, and perceiving every week. saturated or not, the collective creative realm could always use a little more messy and imperfect humanness, especially now. and frankly, my brain could always use an opportunity to dump a little of what its been holding onto somewhere. but i promise, it’s good stuff! one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, right?

the luxury of red wine

i think a signal of frontal lobe development might be the preference shift from white wine to red. i packed exactly one suitcase and a backpack to take with me on my one way trip to new york city, and a two-year-old bottle of red wine made the cut. two glasses over a home cooked dinner during the first week of house sitting in manhattan, one glass while getting ready for a night out in brooklyn, three glasses over the course of one week working a 9-5, and the final glass and a half at noon the day that i moved into my williamsburg sublet.

it took that one bottle, savoring what my college self would have deleted within one girls night, to develop a taste for red wine. and the experience it has to offer. as a person who sees nearly everything through a poetic lens (…working on it), i declare red wine my current muse. while joan didion had diet coke and almonds, i have cabernet and a burgundy notebook to match. except my ritual is slightly more expensive and arguably worse for you.

i’m not sure how many people pass in and out of MUD in the east village on a given week, but i know that i’ve been enough times to be a recognizable face to them. i’ve overstayed my welcome enough instances for them to wait until i am visibly packing up my things to bring me the check. they have $7 wine during happy hour. the dim lighting and candle lit wooden tables make for my ideal writing conditions. but mostly, i credit the wine.

i decided that red wine is the symbol of the season, in my writing and way of life. it is mature and feminine, bittersweet and calm. it is a less impulsive shade of red, a deeper and wiser pink. it’s late summer, jazz, and luxurious solitude. full-bodied and balanced.

rachel green

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you know her, you love her, but do you want to be her? maybe. i wasn’t spoiled growing up. i figured out how to think less about myself and more about other people quite a while ago. but there is an undeniable rachel greenness about me. one of the last face to face conversations i had before i came to new york was a very honest one with my dad. i allowed myself to break character and admit that i was afraid of failing. i knew that my clear vision of what i wanted was my only option because it had to be, but there was a part of me that was shaking. i can always count on him to notice and point out the parts of me that are unsteady, the ways i’m holding myself back. i was firming myself up, i had to convince him that i could handle the risk that i was about to take so that i could convince myself.

“isabel, i know that you can make this work. i believe it, and i’m on your team.” he then dove into a metaphor about the characters in “friends,” noting the different ways they each survived living in the city “even though it’s just a tv show.” he said he knows i think of myself as a rachel, but in his eyes i am a monica.

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for some context, the sitcom is something like a fifth member of our family. we reference episodes almost daily. as a 2003 baby who was sat in front of re-runs in our living room probably starting the night i was brought home from the hospital, it sort of raised me like a third parent. and maybe subconsciously, i allowed rachel, monica, and phoebe to shape my developing perception of womanhood.

rachel is a charming, fashion oriented, sometimes awkward, sometimes boy crazy, strong-willed, ambitious, sentimental, hot mess crash-out who demonstrates the duality of fierce femininity and girlhood. i think many of us probably see ourselves in her. i see her in my standards, lifestyle, idealism, and the way i dress. but monica? she’s neat, responsible, and has her life together. couldn’t be me. but maybe it is? maybe i need to pay a little more attention to the structured, discerning, hardworking, compulsive list-making side of myself right now. because maybe sometimes we just have to look at ourselves from the perspective of someone we love to see our full potential.

autumn, past and future

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i’ve been thinking about the month of september. last september was a turning point for me, which inspired a poem1 and got me thinking about what all past septembers have held for me — and what this one might hold. i think september might be my january. ocean vuong wrote, “it’s june after all & you’re young until september”2. this past june marked the beginning of post grad, and september 1st has come to represent a loud deadline for when i need to have some sort of secure foundation laid for myself in nyc. it really has felt like the summer between youth and adulthood.

i can’t bear to hear myself use the phrase “put childish things aside,” but i am conditioning myself to make room for more adult things. those things being realism, honest communication, discipline, and financial wellness. this was the summer of creating loudly, trusting my intuition, expanding my mind, and protecting my peace. so maybe autumn is for all things tangible. iterating. note-taking. collecting data. budgeting. movement. taking what i write and conceptualize on my own, and directing it somewhere with purpose. being okay with things taking time because only the superficial reaps instant reward. what happens after you’ve learned to share your art? learning to package it carefully. focusing in on the elements that mean the most and carry the most impact. quality over quantity. iteration over ideation. insulating the home so that it lasts the colder months.

after all, seasons change. so do cities. people come into your life and people go.3 in a city that seems to support and then knock down every house of cards in its path, “making it work” might require boldness to start and patience to keep building.

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footnotes

i remember feeling embarrassed that i wrote my common app essay on something as revealing as my self image, when people were getting into harvard with some clever metaphor about pizza. i wrote something about movies originally, but scrapped it because i knew i was playing it safe. i wanted to show these colleges who i was, and that i knew who i was. i didn’t fully understand then that allowing ourselves to be seen is the path to belonging, and yet i somehow demonstrated just that. i’m sure the movie essay would’ve gotten me into umass, but there is something to be said about looking within yourself, making sense of what you see, and documenting it. it’s a practice that has become sacred to me — my compass and lighthouse. so here it is, raw and (painfully) unedited, the most important thing i’ve ever written.

the sand dunes, 2020

The World, Through My Lens

Through a peephole, I see my world. An image starting as a lean perspective expanding into vast panoramic views. A fish-eyed representation of life and a collection of stories fused together into a single perception. I see not what is shown in pixels on screens, but the thought and meaning behind them. I see x-ray images of characters, memories, and visions. In the past nearly decade of my life, my perspective has shifted greatly through an evolution of the lens through which I view this world - and myself in it.

When I was 9, I saw myself as a writer. I sought identity in words on a diary page, and in fictional novels. I saw myself writing stories for people to flip though eagerly day and night, like I did. An author, and not a rockstar or an astronaut like other kids dreamed of. Maybe this was because reading novels took me to a different world, and I wanted to create a world of my own and invite others to visit. I knew that a simple thought could grow into a story which could connect me to others, and maybe then, I too could be seen through a magical, wondrous lens.

When I was around 13, I began to see myself through others’ eyes. I focused my lens on the opinions and reactions of the people around me. I edited my self-image to match the images of my peers. I saw myself in external facades. The heroic females from my novels got lost in piles on bookshelves. I formed a narrative that extended from a gallery of heavily edited illusions. It became difficult to recognize myself anytime I took inventory of who I was, and so importantly, who I was becoming. In working so hard to be someone else I was experiencing the worst possible result - I was succeeding. Something needed to adjust.

I challenged myself to look within. Instead of seeing myself through others, I chose to see myself in others. I replaced my distorted lens with one that could see depth and character. I connected more to what made me unique. From my diverse family and cultural influences, to my understanding of education as preparation for a life that has a little bit of the magic and wonder I had hoped for in my earliest years. I may not be an author, but I can and will write my own story.

Today, I see myself as an empath. I see myself in the joy and pain of others, in politics and feminism, and in justice and unity. By seeing others and hearing different tales, I can see beyond differences. I see myself as a multi-ethnic girl. I see myself in two cultures that are worlds apart but both equally shape my identity. Through close embraces and blessings that know communication beyond just one language, I see family and spirituality. Behind stern faces and thoughtful gestures I see a bond that extends beyond the surface. I see individuality and equality. I have developed my own set of values that mirror those of the Boricuas of Puerto Rico and the Vikings of Scandinavia, but are all my own.

I choose to see the world through identity. I see myself as a leader. By listening and digesting, I am a student. By staying quiet to understand and speaking up to inspire, I am an ally. I lead with the intent to always learn and to listen, and act with a goal to encourage and inspire. I work everyday to improve my lens; adjusting my focus when things become blurry and unclear, zooming in on the little things, capturing the moments that shape my identity. I see the power in creating a world where differences can amount to connection. Where people can see each other through a kaleidoscope of stories, thoughts and beliefs. Where people can connect to others by seeing themselves.

give me back september. 
i felt grown, and brand new. 
in fairytales, the other shoe never drops. 

in october my shoes felt too tight. 
the grass turned a brownish hue,
i sold my girlhood for magic beans. 

you were nimble, but you caught fire. 
i called my mirror a whore and she said 
“if the shoe fits.” 

take me back to september 
where i left my glass slipper.
i want to walk in her shoes again 
but they never write stories 
about coming out of age, do they? 

now they all know
that i’m not really that girl from the ball, 
but i still hold onto these cinders 
because i’ve never known a princess 
that doesn’t wait. 

when september ended, 
the clock struck twelve 
and me and the orange leaves 
came tumbling after you 
but at rock bottom it was just me. 

my bare feet hurt now 
because no one can walk 
in glass fucking slippers, 
or jump over a candlestick 
for that matter. 

they called me a princess 
and said belle means beauty, 
and i think growing up is a beast. 

i know that when it strikes midnight 
the princess runs away, 
and maybe 
they should have ended the story there. 

i looked in the mirror 
and saw something scarlett. 
i think in september, 
the grass and my innocence were 
evergreen 

and i think before that
i called the mirror a prude 
and she said, “if the shoe fits.”

A satisfactory projection of myself balanced on a folding chair in the shell-speckled sand. I had achieved an almost golden brown color, and I’d relaxed comfortably into an air of incognito. I was intently immersed in the role of people watcher. I watched the people speckled like the shells on rocks, water, and sand. Mostly children and families — more girls than boys. Two small girls stood a few feet apart on the shore and repeatedly splashed each other with pales of water, giggling and ducking in unison. At ten o’clock two equally small heads bobbed in the shallow current each spinning in tandem with one parent. A young couple, who had been stationed behind me on the sand, floated idly in a submerged embrace. And directly in my peripheral — an elderly couple planted on one horizontally laid towel, absorbing the same scene. I wondered about how their view might differ from mine. Perhaps theirs was colored with nostalgia.

It was ideal material for writing, except that it didn’t evoke any particular feeling in me. I was the disengaged narrator of a story that ought to be told by someone else. Understudy to the elderly couple, who opted to make better use of their time. The scenery depicted a beautifully simple, plain life. A seemingly middle aged woman stood waist-deep in the water, peering to her left and right. I imagined she felt a sense of peace in the escape from a busy life. I couldn’t see myself in any vignette this beach had to offer, not now or ever. And that thought didn’t evoke any particular feeling in me either. Apathetically, I observed the happy family and enamored couples and the woman in the water soaking in the simplicity of salt air and warm water and quiet.

I thought about whether I’d possess this gift of observation forever. To experience life obliviously would be decidedly tragic. A small girl collected sea shells in a plastic case. She squatted in the sand right next to me as if I wasn’t there at all. Apathy alchemized into gratitude. I wasn’t the narrator, but rather a chosen audience member of one of life’s obscure tales unfolding in front of me. Time stilled. Cinema in its rawest form, untouched by the digital world. Paradise, fragile and fleeting.

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now look at me,
dancing through fear.
dive bar alchemy –
fine wine from cheap beer.

when you are young,
everything's romantic.
struggle is sexy,
desperation semantic.

i am full of something
i’ve never been given.
skin is soft yet unyielding,
mind is idle yet driven.

a round of blind darts
invisible target.
defunding the arts
impossible market.

joining the love club,
dancing alone.
almost is enough
i still wait by the phone.

cigarettes and hollow hope,
coffee beans and daring bold.
the light and nimble walk the rope,
fearless dreamers strike the gold.

you cannot kill a cigarette 
before it's done you in. 
poison fruit, beneath your boot –
bold innocence and sin.

take only what you need
to never need to ask –
it takes a fervent greed
to damn a buried casket.

in quiet, wasted breath 
condemn the cig for calling –
for a cigarette is death –
it haunts you for withdrawing.

nearly spent, it beckons red –
so stub it out with bated breath –
take it straight to your head, straight to bed –
then ghost the ghost, so death meets death.

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On May 31, 2025 I moved out of my college town for good. I’d been saying goodbye for weeks, but it was only just starting to feel real. Everyone was separated now. Genny had left the previous morning. I watched her pull out of the driveway in her jeep that was packed to the brim, her plant sitting on top of her bags in the passenger seat and blocking half of her face. I was the only one left in our house now. 

I called my mom and asked if she wanted to sleep over, because I felt alone and I knew she would say yes. It felt ironic, calling my mommy to save me as I stood on the very edge of adulthood. We packed and cleaned and listened to music, and watched “The OC.” The next morning, we walked to the farmers market and got maple cream coffee and chocolate almond croissants. I said goodbye to the town. It was hazy and wet, but it was perfect. We worked like bees, with a little help from Abba and The Beatles, until our two cars and truck were packed full. 

I’d never spent an entire year away from home before. That house saw many different versions of me. I swept up what had been my princess room and said goodbye. I felt like I was living the final scene from “Hannah Montana” where she longingly stares through her Malibu beach house window, reflecting on all of the memories it held. It’s corny and a bit dramatic, but I totally get her now! We attach a piece of our souls’ energy to the places we exist in for long periods of time. 

I stood at the top of the steps that led down into my bedroom, and saw the past year flicker before me. I’d quite literally been my happiest and my lowest in that room. I’d adored and despised versions of myself that existed there. A wave of gratitude washed over me. I felt debted to those four walls that had kept me safe. They held me up when I wasn’t strong enough to look out for myself. I thought about how I had lost, found, sabotaged, and rebuilt myself over the past year. What I’d experienced was transformation. What better time to spread my wings and take off?

What terrified me about graduating college was the unknown that existed on the other side. How could I wrap my mind around a reality that I couldn’t conceptualize yet? The past four years fed my soul in many ways. I met people that challenged my belief that I was my happiest in solitude, revealed qualities about myself that I really loved, discovered personal talents that had a real impact, and found my voice. I found something in college that I didn’t even know to look for. It healed wounds that I never knew existed. 

For many, life is really only beginning at 21 years old (thank god), but it’s still a strange feeling to know that you’ve come so far and are still nowhere near where you want to be. I knew that I had plenty of room to grow, and college life had become too comfortable to offer me that space. The inevitable time had come to advance to the next level. It was nonetheless terrifying to have no clear plan for how or when I’d get there. I was adrift in murky waters, watching my college lifeboat float away from me. I was approaching a dreadful in-between – purgatory.
 
The end of the semester dragged on long enough for me to condition my mind for post grad life. My inner world was slowly expanding and opening itself up to life beyond. The door was cracked. I had conversations that made it all feel real, and possible. Chapters were closing everywhere I turned – everything was coming full circle. We were all collectively making peace with leaving Amherst behind, and what a wonderful problem it was to have.

At this point I should’ve entered mental paralysis. To my surprise, I felt energized. I felt a sudden hunger for inspiration – I began feeding my soul with creative projects, ideas, gratitude, and excitement. I’d anticipated complete devastation, but instead I came face-to-face with the possibilities that were waiting for me. I felt something greater than hope for a bright future: fuel motorizing me to go create it. 

Hopefulness is one of my superpowers. It’s the thing that keeps me going even when what I want seems unreachable. I’ve learned that hope can be paired with either expectation or  intention. Hope can fail you if you’re relying on something else to work out for you to succeed. One difference between those who succeed and those who don’t is intention. Expectations are passive. Intentions are active. I’m choosing to embrace this period of uncertainty as an opportunity to pair my high hopes with dedicated intentions – to be mindful of my every decision and take active steps forward. 

I know what it's like to run out of fuel. I know how difficult it can be to rely on yourself to keep going when the odds might be stacked against you. But I also know what it feels like to visualize what you want and make the bold choice to go for it anyway – and it’s a beautiful and empowering thing. Post grad doesn’t have to feel like purgatory. It might be the only time in life that nothing is restricting you from following your own path. It might just be the doors to heaven, whatever that looks like for you, and you have the power to forge your way through.